


Red Pill, Blue Pill

by Calais_Reno



Series: Speculative Shorts [10]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Canon Divergence - A Study in Pink, Choices, Don't copy to another site, Happy Ending, Implied/Referenced Suicide, M/M, POV Sherlock Holmes, Second Chances
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-03
Updated: 2020-07-03
Packaged: 2021-03-05 05:29:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,143
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25049182
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Calais_Reno/pseuds/Calais_Reno
Summary: Everything you do-- or don't do-- has consequences.Does the great Sherlock Holmes have regrets?
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Series: Speculative Shorts [10]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1856791
Comments: 38
Kudos: 123
Collections: Chelle's Fic Recommendations





	Red Pill, Blue Pill

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [Красная таблетка, синяя таблетка](https://archiveofourown.org/works/27741001) by [Little_Unicorn](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Little_Unicorn/pseuds/Little_Unicorn)



> Just to be clear, without any spoilers: Sherlock and John are both alive at the end of this story. The only people who die are the same people who died in Study in Pink. This is just a non-canonical detour. At the end, we're back in canon, but for one small change.  
> There are some not-very-graphic descriptions of a suicide. If this might trigger you, please don't read!

_Saturday, 30 January, 11 pm_

“You’re gonna love this,” says the cabbie.

In his hand there are two pills, one blue, one red.

Sherlock holds the cabbie’s gaze for a moment, then looks down at the pills. “Okay, two pills. Explain.”

“You have a choice. Live or die.”

“You know which pill is which. And I don’t.”

“It wouldn’t be a game if you knew. You’re the one that chooses.”

He considers. There must be more to it than that. Four people have had this choice, and all of them have died. “Why should I? What’s in it for me?”

The cabbie leers a bit, pleased with his game. “Here’s the thing. The blue pill lets you live your life just as you’ve been living, in blissful ignorance. You’ll live until you die, whenever that is. The red pill gives you a chance to correct a mistake you’ve made.”

“What kind of mistake?”

“Any kind. Something you said or did that you wish you hadn’t.” He grins. “Or maybe the great Sherlock Holmes has no regrets. He doesn’t make mistakes. In that case, take the blue pill.” He sets the two pills on the table, red and blue. “Everything you do— or don’t do— has consequences. You know that. Maybe you did something you don’t even realise is gonna kill you.”

Sherlock shakes his head. He sees the catch. “I live or I die, but you don’t say which choice will cause my death.”

“People make mistakes every day. You have a chance to fix one— just one mistake you’ve made in the last forty-eight hours. Those are the rules. From that point on, your choice will give you a new future. You might die a lot sooner, or you might live a long and happy life. Your choice.”

“Why forty-eight hours?”

“Well, we can’t have you going back and making a change for something that’s already played out. That might make you an entirely different person from the one who chooses. In the last forty-eight hours you’ve made choices and haven’t really seen the consequences. You’ve turned down some opportunities and taken others. You should think about that before you choose.”

“Which pill did the others choose?”

“Not telling.” He gestures towards the pills. “Take your time. Get yourself together.”

_Forty-eight hours ago_

_Thursday, 28 January, 11 pm_

He’s standing amidst boxes in the sitting room of his new flat, talking to his brother.

“Mycroft, I’ll pay you back. Just two month’s rent. I have a case that’s going to pay well, if you can just—“

“No. You said you want to do this on your own, without my _interference._ Very well, I will not interfere, and that means not paying your bills for you. Do you see? If I give you money, I own the privilege of interfering.”

“I’ve been clean for months. And I’ve built up my business to the point where I need more space. I can almost afford this flat if you just give me a loan. Tide me over. Things have been slow, but they’re picking up. I will pay you back by the end of the month.”

“You can’t have it both ways, Sherlock. Either you are standing on your own two feet, or you’re leaning on me. If you take my assistance, there will be surveillance. And regular check-ins, and my approval required for—”

He huffs. “Mycroft—“

“Just protecting my investment, brother. If you’re not able to pay your bills, you need supervision. It’s up to you. You can get a flatmate and pay your own way, or take a loan from me.”

“I’ll figure it out myself,” he says. Before Mycroft can remind him how that’s worked out before, he hangs up.

He’ll sleep on it, he decides. Tomorrow he’ll have another idea.

And tomorrow Lestrade will call him. The DI is at the end of his rope and they both know it. Three people poisoned, self-administered, all found in places they shouldn’t have been. Clearly linked. There will be others.

_Friday, 29 January, 7 am_

He wakes up without an idea. Lestrade hasn’t called, not yet. Until he does, Sherlock will work on the other case, break the alibi of the man with the green ladder. That will require a fresh corpse. In the UK, over half a million people die every year, roughly 1500 a day. Surely one of those will turn up in Molly’s morgue today.

After texting Molly, he eats his toast, drinks his tea, and reads the paper. There’s a story about the serial suicides. A fascinating case, worthy of his brain, and Scotland Yard is mucking around, not looking at any of the right things, not asking the questions that need to be asked.

His phone chimes. A message from Molly: _one just in. 67, natural causes._

_Thank you. SH_

_Friday, 29 January, 11 am_

He heads over to Bart’s. It’s an interesting question: how long after death can bruises form? He’s brought his riding crop.

“Bad day, was it?” asks Molly as he beats the corpse.

He supposes it was, mostly because of Mycroft. He knows his brother’s hidden agenda. If Sherlock has a flatmate, he can pay his part of the rent without any problem, and Mycroft can have a _conversation_ with said flatmate, who will become his new spy. Mycroft is very good at intimidation. He’ll probably offer to pay the man, which is ridiculous because he could just give the money to Sherlock, who could use it to pay his rent.

If he doesn’t take a flatmate, there will be cameras and visits and intrusive questions. It amounts to the same thing, either way. No privacy.

Mycroft knows that he won’t take a flatmate. People don’t want to live with Sherlock. The way Molly is looking at him right now exemplifies that reaction in a nutshell: admiration and horror. Nobody denies that he is brilliant. And nobody wants to live with a man who beats corpses with a riding crop and keeps eyeballs in his fridge.

While he waits for the bruises to form, he returns to the lab and works on another experiment. Molly offers to bring him some coffee. For some reason, she’s wearing lipstick today. _Not important._

Mike Stamford comes into the room, a smaller man in tow. Sherlock glances at the man.

_Military. Either Afghanistan or Iraq. Walks with a cane— injury in leg? No, shoulder. Invalided home, has a small pension, lives in a boring bedsit. He’s standing now, and has forgotten about his leg. Psychosomatic pain, obviously. PTSD. His therapist has told him to write a blog or some nonsense…_

“Mike, can I borrow your phone? There’s no signal on mine.”

Predictably, Mike has left his phone in his coat. Not so predictably, his short friend offers his own phone.

He takes the phone, still warm from the man’s hand. _Probably the most valuable thing he owns right now_. The man is looking around the room. _He’s a doctor, and army surgeon who can no longer do surgery_.

He turns the phone over, sees the inscription:

_Harry Watson_

_From Clara_

_Xxx_

He sends his text, hands the phone back.

_Expensive phone, six months old. Gift from brother, who’s an alcoholic, left his wife…_

He’s learned to keep his mouth shut. People don’t like having their lives deduced in public. It makes them say, _piss off._ He hears that a lot, and today he’s not in the mood. Clearly Mike has brought this small, tedious man over to ask about sharing a flat. Sherlock had mentioned it to him yesterday, when he was still considering that.

Too late now. He’ll figure something out.

Anyway, the man is boring. In six months’ time, he’ll either be doing locum work at a small surgery, dating the receptionist, or he’ll be dead by his own hand, using the gun he keeps in a drawer at the boring bedsit.

“Sorry— gotta dash,” he says.

_Twenty-four hours ago_

_Friday, 29 January, 11 pm_

He has spent the day unpacking boxes, moving into the flat.

The leased is signed, and Mrs Hudson accepted a check for the first month. He hasn’t enough to pay the security deposit yet, but has promised he’ll have it by the end of the week. Seeing him move all his lab equipment into the kitchen, Mrs Hudson is adamant about the deposit. _Due next Friday_.

How that will happen, he hasn’t figured out. He has a couple of cases he might wrap up by then, and maybe he can ask more than his usual fee. That might not help him get new clients, but within a month, he hopes to be in a position to ask whatever he wants. Solving the serial suicides won’t pay, but it will be free publicity.

He looks around at the mess. There’s another bedroom upstairs, perfect for a laboratory. Come to think of it, he might have a sink put in up there, if the plumbing extends to that floor. Or he can just use the kitchen as a lab and use the room upstairs for storage.

_Saturday, 30 January, 1 pm_

Lestrade calls, in person. As predicted, there’s been another suicide. This time, there’s a note. Brixton, Lauriston Gardens.

He takes a cab. Lestrade has preserved the scene. Even Anderson hasn’t touched it yet.

“Two minutes, Sherlock,” Lestrade says.

And finally— the killer has made a mistake.

The woman is dressed in pink from head to toe. Even her fingernails, broken from scratching RACHE in the floor, are pink. And she’s traveled from Cardiff. _Where is her suitcase?_

Pink is the mistake. Obviously the case is pink. The murderer can’t keep it, can’t be seen with it. A man carrying a large pink suitcase might draw notice. So he had to get rid of it.

In less than an hour, he’s found the case in a skip, and has her phone number from the luggage tag. He hollers for Mrs Hudson, but she doesn’t hear. Eventually, he gets up and goes downstairs.

“May I borrow your phone, Mrs Hudson?”

“Of course,” she says, handing it to him. “Is your battery dead?”

He’s typing, doesn’t respond.

_What happened at Lauriston Gardens? I must have blacked out._

_Twenty-two Northumberland Street. Please come._

“What?” He looks up, sees her frowning at him. “Oh, I didn’t want to use mine. Always a chance that the number will be recognised.” He hands the phone back.

She’s looking at his message. “You blacked out? Sherlock, really—“

“No, Mrs Hudson. No drugs. Just trying to catch a murderer.”

As he puts on his coat, he hears her call, “Did you just use my phone to text a murderer?”

_Saturday, 30 January, 5 pm_

It was a long shot. He spent forty minutes sitting in Angelo’s front window, watching for someone to come to the building opposite. The murderer is clearly more clever than he thought. He’s realised his mistake and is not going to let himself be caught.

A taxi pulls up. _Interesting, maybe even clever_.

But it’s another dead-end. The passenger is from California, just arrived. _Welcome to London._

Returning to his flat, he finds that he has visitors.

“I’m not an idiot,” Lestrade says. “I knew you’d find the case. You can’t withhold evidence, Sherlock. Are you going to help us properly?”

He concedes that Lestrade has a point. “Did you find Rachel?”

“She had a daughter, still-born fourteen years ago.”

Sherlock considers this. Jennifer Wilson has deliberately scratched her dead daughter’s name into the floor— very painfully. She broke her perfect, pink-lacquered fingernails doing so. _What does it mean?_

“That was years ago. Why would she still be upset?”

Lestrade rolls his eyes. Anderson murmurs, _psychopath._

He needs to think, without distractions. “Shut up, everybody!”

_Her phone is missing. She used it for business, for email. If she loses it she can locate it by—_

Lestrade is talking into his phone. He sighs, turns to Sherlock. “Another suicide. Probably not related, but we should take a look.”

_Saturday, 30 January, 7 pm_

A block of flats, all cheap bedsits. On the second floor there is an open door, two policemen waiting for their arrival.

“We didn’t touch anything,” says DS Jones. “Obviously a suicide, not the same as yours, but thought you might want to take a look.”

It’s a dismal room, just a bed, a table, a chair. Small window overlooking an alley. A laptop sits open on the table.

He touches the space bar and the screen comes to life. It’s a blog entry, written last night.

_I remember praying when I was shot: Please, God, let me live. It would have been better if I hadn’t. There’s nothing for me here. Nothing ever happens to me._

He’s lying on the tiled floor, a considerate choice for the people who will be paid to clean the room. The police carry business cards for a few services who do that. There won’t be much to this job. The man was a doctor and knew how to use a gun, planned his shot well. He’s dressed in the same checked shirt he wore when he came into the lab at Bart’s, the same dark blue trousers. The eyes that looked at Sherlock just hours ago are now blank.

“Well?” says Lestrade. “Anything?”

He’d predicted this, but it’s hard to believe that it came so soon. What tipped this man over? He’s been depressed, even suicidal for days. He was a soldier who was sent home with a commendation and a tiny pension. He must have hated living here, his injuries making it impossible to practice medicine. So he went to his old friend Mike Stamford, asked if he knew of anyone interested in sharing a flat, and Mike said, _I do know someone._

“What was his name?”

Lestrade looks up from the laptop. “Hm? His name?”

“John Watson,” says the constable.

He closes his eyes, trying to delete that empty gaze. _Sentiment_. Not helpful for solving crimes. There is a criminal to catch, and John Watson’s troubles won’t help him solve that.

“Nothing here,” he says. “It’s just a suicide.”

_Saturday, 30 January, 10 pm_

He’s alone in his flat when it comes together for him. The phone is not missing; she planted it on him. She scratched the password into the floor: _Rachel._ He can use the website to trace the phone.

The location comes up on his laptop— 221B Baker Street.

_It doesn’t make sense. How can the phone be here?_

“Sherlock!” Mrs Hudson is calling up the stairs.

_It wasn’t hidden in the case. Scotland Yard took it, so there’s no chance it was inside…_

“Sherlock, about this cabbie—“

Oh. _Oh_.

He grabs his coat, heads down to the street. The man is waiting for him, leaning against his cab. “Taxi for Sherlock ‘olmes.”

“I didn’t order a taxi.”

“Doesn’t mean you don’t need one.”

_Saturday, 30 January, 11 pm_

“Your choice.” The cabbie grins crookedly. “Red, one change. Blue, no regrets.”

It might have been a mistake to get in the cab. Or to send the text, or to keep evidence from Lestrade. It might have been a mistake to move all of his things into a flat he can’t afford.

He can’t know which pill will kill him sooner and which one will give him more time. The only certain thing is that the red pill will give him one choice, one opportunity to change something he did— or didn’t do.

There is one mistake he can surely fix. He doesn’t know how it will affect his life, but there’s one life he might save. At the very least, he can try.

“Red,” he says.

“There’ll be consequences,” says the cabbie. “You might die tonight. Are you certain?”

How can he be certain? He closes his eyes, imagines John Watson. He’s a military man, so he doesn’t complain, doesn’t ask for anything. But he misses having a purpose, saving lives. He cared about those lives, even the ones he didn’t save. He was afraid to die, and prayed to live, but he has nothing to live for now. He is brave, but facing another day of _nothing happens_ is more than he can stand.

Sherlock imagines him limping along Baker Street, coming to see about the flat. He sees Mrs Hudson fluttering over him. He watches him move his few possessions into the flat. He hears him crying at night, dreaming of Afghanistan, of friends who died.

He’s loyal, this soldier, and he’s brave. He’s an army doctor who’s seen enough injuries and war and death and trouble for a lifetime. Far too much. And he’s willing to see more, as long as he can be useful.

Maybe none of what he imagines will happen. John Watson might die tonight regardless of Sherlock’s choice. The chance that he _won’t_ die makes it worth the risk.

He nods, takes the pill, swallows.

_Sunday, January 31, 12 am_

They’re walking away from the crime scene.

“Are you all right?”

John smiles. “Yeah, of course I’m all right.”

“Well, you have just killed a man.”

“You were gonna take that damned pill, weren’t you?”

“The right pill.” He smiles back at John.

“How can you know that?”

“I just do. I know it was the right pill.”

John shrugs. “Well, I guess we’ll never be sure.”

They continue walking, but he hesitates. He’s made a mistake, but there might still be time to fix it.

“John,” he says. “There is something I said earlier today. I believe I left you with a false impression and I’d like to correct that.”

“Oh? Let’s see. You’re a madman who risks your life to prove you’re clever. That’s right. And I’d be an idiot to think I’m not going to spend most of my time keeping you out of trouble. I think that’s an accurate impression. You mentioned the violin. And the not talking for days. What haven’t you said?”

“You were asking me about… _attachments._ I said girlfriends are not my area.”

“It’s fine.” He licks his lips, a nervous gesture, and frowns a bit. “So, you have a boyfriend?’

“No, I don’t. I said I was married to my work. While my work is important to me, I implied that I was not interested in… _attachments.”_

John nods. “I assumed—“

“I’d like to correct your assumption. I am unattached, like you, but hope that will not always be the case.”

“Oh?” John stops walking and looks at him.

He stops too. They face each other in the empty street. “In fact, I _am_ flattered. So if you’re interested… if you’re _asking_ …” He holds out his hand.

John looks at the hand for a few seconds, then takes his own out of his pocket, reaches down for Sherlock’s. He smiles. “So, you said something about dim sum.”


End file.
